


The Director's Husband

by GayCorn



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BAMF Bucky Barnes, Epilogue, Happy Ending, M/M, Married Couple, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:49:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GayCorn/pseuds/GayCorn
Summary: It's common knowledge among all SHIELD employees that the Director's Husband is a scary motherfucker.





	The Director's Husband

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Half of the History (We Shall Never Know)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3464138) by [Speranza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Speranza/pseuds/Speranza). 



> Hello! This was inspired by "Half of the History (We Shall Never Know)" by Speranza, and you should really read that before reading this. It takes place a couple years after that story ends. I hope you enjoy my story, and if you don't, please let me know how to fix it ☺.

Everyone knows that when you've messed up beyond the point of your superior being able to deal with you, you get sent to their superior. This is common in elementary schools. You're being an annoying little shit, you fuck up, and they ship your ass down to the principal's office and threaten to call your mom.

Since we work at SHIELD, the principal is the Director and most of our mothers and other relatives are deceased as part of our tragic back stories. Being sent to the Director is fucking awful nonetheless. He can't make us call our mothers, but that's okay because he can channel the same disappointed stare and lecture as any parent. He's the whole damn agency's mother.

When one of us is sent, they come back either ashamed, determined, or some canine mixture of the two, and it bleeds into the rest of us.

He's not the worst, though.

If someone messes up twice, The Director doesn't hear about it. The Director doesn't hear about a lot of things.

* * *

Kyle was joking around with his friends in the lounge. They'd just gotten back from a mission they seemed to disapprove of, and we weren't really listening at first, sipping our coffee and looking at our phones. SHIELD had changed a lot since after it was rebuilt, but we mostly believed it was for the better. Kyle did not.

"We used to go all around the world, doing real missions. Korea, Africa, Mexico! Real action. Now we're getting sent to fucking _Utah_ for cleanup work by some useless faggot who's probably too old to-"

We hadn't noticed him being nearby, but then The Director's Husband was right there, sitting nonchalant on the side of an armchair, buttering some toast with a combat knife. "What was that, Agent Labsworth?"

Kyle paled. He stuttered for a few seconds before getting out, "Uh, um, uh, nothing, Sir."

"Aww, Kyle, you don't gotta call me "Sir". I'm just trying to get in a nice conversation with a coworker. Now, do you mind filling me in on the conversation?" The Director's Husband is in no way a coworker to Kyle. His clearance level is as high as the Director's (by shear force of being the most terrifying living being in any building at any given time), and he doesn't even actually work for S.H.I.E.L.D.

Kyle looks like he'd rather go to a nursing home and recite a transcript of things he's said and done during sex to the entirety of the staff and residents. "He was just calling The Director a useless faggot, Sir." That was Mary, who still has balls of steel, even after years of working here, many missions, and an "actual surgery that got rid of her real balls." (The last one she'll say whenever some new kid says something about the balls of steel. The kid's face is hilarious.) Most of us admire her. We think she's about to get promoted, so other people must, too.

"Really?" The Director's Husband is still keeping up an easy-going smile. We put all our energy into sipping our coffees. "Well, I'd love to talk about that in my office, Kyle, but it's being cleaned right now." He stands up and offers his hand out to Kyle. We don't know why or how he has an office, as he is not technically a SHIELD manager or employee. This way, some of us have hypothesized, no one can give him orders, and he is able to stay and keep watch over the organization. None of us can say anything about it even if we wanted to, and the higher ups don't say anything because the Director won't hear it, and of course, The Director's Husband is a scary motherfucker. Kyle accepts the handshake. "I guess we just have to trust that it won't happen again, right?" The Director's Husband strolls out of the room, leaving us to stare at Kyle, who has curled up around his obviously broken pinky finger.

We know that The Director's Husband has a metal arm. He doesn't wear a glove or anything over it, even though the Sciences Division could make something that looked like skin to put over it. We know he has an extremely powerful prosthetic left arm. But it was a handshake, and he had used his right hand.

It's common knowledge among all SHIELD employees that the Director's Husband is a scary motherfucker.

* * *

Mary has asked HR several times about putting in some single stall showers. There are some in the building, but there aren't many, and they're only for higher ranking officers. No one's ever seen her go into the on-site locker rooms; instead she will drive to a nearby truck stop and use their shower rooms, then return for the post-mission debrief. She uses the women's bathroom in the building, but… Mary doesn't have good experiences with locker rooms.

Her truck stop strategy seems to have worked for her in the past, if you count the hour everyone else spends on regrouping being eaten up by the road as "working out". She never has time to eat in between the mission and debrief. This would be okay, but she has to have food in her to take her hormones, and sometimes this means that after the stress of the mission and debrief, she'll forget to take it. Anyways, it hasn't been too bad, and it's been working well enough.

Today, Mary's team came back covered in alien. They weren't difficult to beat, but they were messy, and they've had varying effects where their gore touched skin. So now Mary has to get into the locker room so she won't contaminate her car or the gas station. She has to shower with her team. Naked. She can't move her feet. She can't breathe. She has to get into the room and she can't move and they'll see her and they'll hurt her and she needs to breath and she can't move and she's- being lifted.

Mary's being lifted off of the floor and into someone's arms and then lifted by an elevator. She's away from the locker room. She works on breathing. How is she being carried? She's not particularly overweight, but she's tall. Mary is 6'2" and someone is carrying her. Whoever it is steps out of the elevator and into the hallway, walking for a minute or so. She's only been on this floor once, during the orientation tour when she first joined. They said it was mostly officer's quarters.

She counts her breaths. She's in some sort of bridal carry, her head near the person's right arm, but she's not helping out at all by hanging on to mystery person's neck. Mary very suddenly does not want to be touched, much less carried to an unknown location by an unknown person.

Mary punches them in the neck and kicks away. Her ankle connects with something metal as she tumbles to the ground, attempting to roll across her shoulder to distribute the force of the landing. Mary scrambles back up into a fighting stance to face mystery person. Her stomach drops, but she pushes back her shoulders and moves into a position of attention. "Sir," she says and resists the urge to… she doesn't know what compulsion she's resisting, curling up again or running. Because Mary just throat punched James "Bucky" Barnes, the Winter Soldier, The Director's Fucking Husband.

Unexpectedly, he holds out Mary's shower bag and a key card. "There are showers at the end of the hall. I'll make sure sanitation know to get that one, too. You can use one, Agent Millerson." He seems to be smiling, just a little. Amused.

"Yes Sir, Thank You, Sir."

He nods his head in acknowledgment, and walks away.

Mary lets out her breath, and then takes a damn shower. (It's much nicer than the truck stop.) She gets to keep the keycard. She later finds out that her company issued insurance now covers her estrogen, too.

* * *

I really hate interrogations. Maybe you might be thinking something along the lines of, "Well Jim, stop doing things that get you interrogated!" The thing is though, I can't. Because my mom is a fuckin' heroin adict, and that shit ain't cheap. It doesn't really leave much left over to take care of my little brother and baby sister, so. I can't just pick up a job at McDonald's. It doesn't pay enough, and I got kicked out of high school for selling weed, so I can't get anything better paying. Except for, of course, going back to dealing. So I did. They almost picked me up for it again, but they couldn't get enough evidence that time. That interrogation was the worst, though.

They don't treat you like you're human. They act like I just felt like breaking the law, living on the edge, just a thrill-seeking teenager. Either that or that I'm made of evil because I tried to make a little money.

I never did any drugs, myself. I saw what they did to Mom. They say you can be born prone to addiction, and I can't risk that shit. I've got Dylan and Lilly to worry about. That's why I stopped dealing. It's tempting. You have no idea. If I'd gotten on, I'd never have gotten off. I was dealing harder stuff, at the end, and I couldn't take it. I gave my clients another guy's business number so they wouldn't come after me, and I switched professions.

It was an accident, when I found them. The weapons were weird. They were glowing under a piece of rubble in a construction site. I figured someone would pay, so I put my ear to the ground. And they did. I got pretty good at finding them, and it made a good profit. Until, of course, these weirdos in suits came and took me away.

I didn't tell them this story. I've learned that people in uniforms don't actually care why you did a crime unless they need it in court.

My current interrogator is real shit at his job. I would love to cooperate, honestly, if he just asked the right questions. He's doing the thing where he asks different versions of the same question again and again until he gets an answer he likes. I honestly don't know how I found the damn guns. I do know how to contact my buyers so they can track down the weapons, but I'm not going to mention that until this incompetent asshole gets his shit together.

A door that I hadn't realized was there opens, and an extremely annoyed cyborg grabs Mr. Intelligence by the collar and drags him to the door I came in and shoves him out of it. Cyborg man turns around. He's tall, muscular, and has a metal fucking arm. Unlike the other guy, he's wearing ripped jeans (they look like they were ripped in a fight with a hyena instead of in a factory) and pink V-neck tank-top with a logo from some beach in Florida and a cartoon sun. He somehow manages to make this outfit look scarier than a suit.

Cyborg man prowls over to the table I'm handcuffed to and stands menacingly behind the seat Mr. Intelligence was in.

He's much better at interrogating. He gets everything I know about my buyers, and I get put on a watchlist and sent home. A week later I receive a job offer, and why the hell not. I have a knack for finding alien guns, and this job comes with insurance.

* * *

"Bucky, you really didn't have to do that. It's not even your job, you don't have to-"

"Shut up, Steve." Bucky is laying down across a recliner in the corner of Steve's office, sideways instead of actually reclining, with his feet propped against a potted tree. Steve has just found out about the untimely demise of a would-be Hydra plant named Susan. Steve seems to believe that this is the only time there's been an attempted plant, and Bucky's going to keep it that way.

"But it's not right, you don't have to do that anymore. I did this so you do have to-"

"Steve. I wanted to. We did this so I don't have to take orders. Did anyone order me to?" Bucky stands up and strides over to Steve, who's wearing that determined look he gets when he's decided he needs to make it clear that everything that has ever happened is his fault.

"No, I know, but-"

Bucky kisses Steve. It's the only thing that can make Steve shut the hell up when he's being stupid. Not for long, but long enough.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first thing I've written on this site. Thank you so much for reading it. If you saw something that you think I should fix, please, please tell me! I probably abused many innocent commas in the making of this fic, so be a pal and tell me. It's like spinach in my teeth.
> 
> If you want me to write more in this universe, tell me; I'll probably do it.
> 
> I had fun messing around with different POVs in this story, let me know what you think of them.
> 
> Thank you so much to Speranza for writing "Half of the History (We Shall Never Know)". It was awesome, I love it so so much. I had the idea for this story in my head the first time I read it, and I just listened to quietnight's wonderful podfic of it again, and I had to write.


End file.
